Chapter 24
Twenty-Four
Back to the question of imminent battle: If you are forced to engage in warfare, do not underestimate your enemy. She may keep a potent weapon in reserve.
By the time Crumpsall sounded the gong, signaling that we should make our way to the drawing room for the Christmas concert and lighting of the Yule log, I had been ready for an hour.
Fleur had visited my chamber, scrutinizing every aspect of my toilette, after which Tess left to inspect Colette’s ensemble.
Once we both left, they planned to spend a cozy evening going over every detail before making their judgment.
I draped my mantle over my arm rather than risk disturbing hair that had taken hours to perfect, left my room, and knocked on Ophelia’s door. She opened it wearing the green gown, her thick hair piled on top of her head with sparkling pins.
“How beautiful you are!” I exclaimed as she drew me inside. “Are those Colette’s favorite slippers?”
Ophelia pointed a toe graced with a cluster of emeralds. “She gave them to me as a Christmas present. Aren’t they marvelous?” She glanced over my ensemble. “You’re very regal tonight. Do you mean to overawe Sophonisba? I feel intimidated, and I know you!”
Tess had dressed me in a white satin evening gown, cut low in the front and trimmed at the bodice, sleeves, and hem with elaborate silver embroidery. Over it, I wore a sleeveless, raspberry-colored robe that floated behind me. The finishing touch was a silver tiara.
“Are those rubies?” Ophelia asked, touching one of the gems adorning the tiara.
“Carnelians,” I told her. “Not precious, but a lovely amber red. The piece belonged to my mother, and is more precious to me than rubies.”
She examined me once again. “The Gallery of Fashion promises that their portraits are ‘faithfully drawn from the real life, in the most fashionable circles.’ They would put you on the cover if they saw you now. It’s ludicrous that you married my father,” she added, flaunting her gift for brutal honesty.
“Do you think that he will wear his kilt tonight?”
“No, I believe he had a crimson coat made for his birthday.”
“His knees resemble rabbit droppings.” She shot me a sideways glance and sighed. “I won’t mention it. I also won’t tell Sophonisba that she should watch for fashion plates depicting you in her favorite journal, because that wouldn’t be kind.”
“Excellent,” I said, choking back an irresponsible laugh.
“Let’s go,” Ophelia said, dancing on her toes. “I want to be there when Burnsby sees my mother’s portrait on the mantelpiece.”
“Wear your cloak,” I told her, taking it from the hook. “It’s not snowing, but it’s cold.”
“You already sound like a mother,” she laughed, swinging her “ghost” cloak over her shoulders.
In the colonnade, she dashed to Godric’s door and knocked loudly.
When he emerged, I swallowed hard, because he wasn’t in black. He wasn’t in black. His coat was made of dark sea-green velvet with ebony buttons. It turned his hair the color of bitter coffee, dark bronze strands gleaming among the black, and brought out the green in his eyes.
“Let’s go!” Ophelia squealed.
She dashed away without noticing the way I had frozen on seeing Godric, or the way his eyes lingered on my lips, or the way he wound his fingers through mine and insisted I put on my mantle, no matter the disarray it caused my curls.
Miss Wellington and the maids had outdone themselves decorating the drawing room.
The Yule log, bound in white hazel twigs, was waiting to the side of the hearth, and greenery was strung on every window and across the mantel.
The room smelled deliciously like fresh fir and spicy wine, thanks to a kettle of wassail bubbling over the fire.
Hecuba’s portrait hung in the place of honor over the fireplace, decorated by a fir bough woven with red ribbons.
“Hello, Mum,” Ophelia said, waggling her fingers.
I moved to stand beside her. “We’ll take her portrait to London with us, shall we?”
Ophelia gave me a lopsided smile. “I’d love that. She may not have been the most perceptive person, marrying Burnsby and all, but she was still my mother.”
I bumped shoulders with Ophelia. “I was as imperceptive as Hecuba. We all make mistakes.”
Colette and Lance entered the room pink-cheeked and merry. Colette handed her cloak to a footman and dimpled at me. “Shall we decide between ourselves who won the competition?”
She was wearing a pale blue crepe gown that opened in front to reveal a tiered white satin slip. Her puffed sleeves had adorable ruffles running down the shoulders, and her hair was caught up with innumerable spangled stars that matched those edging her skirts.
“You are ravishing,” I said frankly. “You have my vote.”
“So are you, and you have mine!” she cried.
Godric bowed and kissed her hand. “You are exquisite, Countess, as always.”
Colette flipped open a starry fan. “Yes, but what do you think of my dear friend and competitor’s ensemble?”
He turned to kiss my hand, the image of a perfect gentleman. The hunger in his eyes burned my skin, and I felt myself starting to blush. “Evie would be beautiful in rags,” he said, his voice as certain as if he’d declared the snow white or the sky blue.
“As would my wife,” Lancelot said, with the same assurance.
“I can be a neutral judge,” Ophelia said, surveying both of us. “Colette wins on the grounds of accessories. Her gloves fit tightly almost to her shoulder, whereas Evie’s bunch at the elbows. Her shoes put her over the finish line.”
Colette drew up her skirts, revealing slender ankles in pale silk stockings. Her heeled slippers were made of a watered blue silk adorned with stars.
“When you visit Paris, Ophelia, I’ll introduce you to my cobbler. He cut these stars from copper and painted them blue to match my gown.”
“I love them,” Ophelia breathed.
Colette wrinkled her nose. “I would have used aquamarines and crosshatched the silk. If I weren’t a lady, I’d design shoes.”
“Godric says I should be a mathematician, despite my birth and sex,” I said. “Why not ask your cobbler to make shoes after your designs? I would love a pair!”
Ophelia clasped her hands. “All those birthday presents I never received? All I want is a pair of shoes designed by you, Colette!”
“That never occurred to me,” Colette said, appearing stunned.
“You could paint the slippers you envision in watercolors,” Lance suggested. He turned to the rest of us. “Colette paints remarkable landscapes.”
“Pooh,” she said, tapping his shoulder with her fan. “They are remarkable only because I have trouble distinguishing blue from green. I’m told that my forests resemble underwater scenes.”
“I learned French to read the work of your country’s brilliant mathematicians,” I told her. “I write letters disputing this or that axiom but never dreamed of mailing them. Now I plan to drop them in the post.”
“I shall write to whomever I wish,” Ophelia said, unsurprisingly. “Did Fleur and Tess agree with my judgment of your accessories?”
“They are still talking. When I left, their discussion was focusing on hair.”
Tess had braided most of my hair, wound it around my head, and fixed it in place with pins topped with silver beads before she began coaxing ringlets to fall down my back, finally topping the whole with my mother’s tiara.
“Mine took hours,” I said, pained.
Godric’s lips twitched. “Did you review architectural drawings in your head?”
“I am memorizing a list of kings of ancient Britain,” I admitted. “I found a book in the library.”
“King Aethelwulf,” Lance said.
“Egbert first, followed by Aethelwulf, Aethelbald, and Aethelbert. Poor Bert only ruled for five years.”
“Why did you bother?” Ophelia asked.
“Evie is easily bored,” Godric said, “and too kind to tell her maid that she doesn’t wish to spend five hours being dressed like a paper doll.”
(Just so you know, I had never told him my secret conviction that I am as stiff and shallow as a paper doll.)
“I think that Evie will appear on the cover of The Gallery of Fashion someday,” Ophelia announced.
“I would be unsurprised,” Godric commented, his confidence warming me more than flattery.
“I shall have a bookseller order that issue from London,” Colette said, kissing me again.
Crumpsall had been ladling wassail and appeared with a tray. I accepted a shallow silver cup, happily breathing in steaming red wine spiced with pepper and cinnamon.
Colette raised her cup, saluting the portrait over the mantelpiece.
“To Hecuba, restored to her rightful place! I see the familial resemblance,” she told Ophelia.
“The lady is beautiful, chérie, though not as exquisite as you, due to a certain lack of vivacity around the eyes. I suspect the latter is a consequence of marriage, not character.”
She glanced about. “Crumpsall, what has become of our entertainment?”
Mima drifted in the door. “We never have entertainment, dear. Not in the abbey. We’re too isolated.”
“Burnsby and his inamorata are to perform an assortment of Christmas hymns,” Colette reported.
Mima turned around and walked straight out the door, followed by her footman. I could sympathize.
“Crumpsall, will you please ascertain if Mima wishes to return for the meal, and if not, serve her Christmas dinner in the library or her chamber, as she prefers?” I asked.
“I shall, my lady. His lordship and Miss Ainsworth are practicing in the music room and will join you shortly.”
“I am hoping that Sophonisba will dance as well as sing,” Colette said. “After all, she boasted of performing at the Théatre National, and there the ladies dance, don’t they, Lance?”
“Vigorously,” her husband murmured.
“My father said their toes fly higher than their heads,” Colette confirmed. “I doubt Miss Ainsworth can match that at her age.”
When she met my eyes, I was surprised by the depth of fury in them. “She scarred my husband,” the Frenchwoman said, answering my silent question. “She will be lucky if a jig is the only thing I demand from her.”